My mother knits. Usually when I tell people this, especially the womenfolk, it's met with a gleeful shriek of "That's so cute!" and followed by some story about how this one time they tried to knit a sweater for their cat that totally didn't fit but whatever because it was fun. No, you don't understand. My mother knits. She knits in the way that spiders spin webs to catch and eviscerate bugs. She knits in the way that zombies feed off of the brains of the living. Like a needle needs a vain, like someone to blame, like a thought unchained, like a runaway train -- my mother knits.
Whether the steady movement of her hands brings her one small step closer to understanding Our Lord and Saviour, or whether the rhythmic clacking of the needles drown the demon whispers urging her to put rat poison in my father's coffee, my mother's constant knitting has progressed over the years from industrious dalliance to ritualistic obsession to functional affliction to Our Little Problem. She swears she can quit at any time, she just chooses not too. We spend our lives in constant fear of being smothered under an avalanche of crocheted blankets, spools of yarn, long reams of brightly colored scarves and itchy sweaters with sleeves that extend to the ends of your fingers. We've seen the knitting needle and the damage done.
I've suffered socially because of my mother's knitting problem. I was the kid wearing cardigans in junior high, well before Kurt Cobain made it acceptable to do so. I also played varsity lacrosse in thick yellow socks that matched my school's colors, owned a white pair of wool gloves, and was occasionally made to model women's dresses. Put all that together and it's no wonder why I was voted Most Likely to Live By Himself in the East Village with Two Cats. Things did not get easier as I developed adult relationships with the opposite sex, as every single gift given by my mother for the past twenty years is knitting related. More than one ex-girlfriend has lamented, "You know, I appreciate all these shawls that your mother is making, but would it kill her to get me a fucking Borders gift card."
There's no denying that my mother is insanely talented in the knitting sciences. As long as I ignore that somewhere in my house there is a cache of baby sweaters hidden in a crawlspace and draped in tears of disappointment, my mother's gift for the knit has made me the darling among the spouse set of all my friends, as their children reap the benefit of handmade outfits created by my mother for her non-existent grandchildren. And yes, I do get fuzzy socks and cozy sweaters out of the deal. But like all geniuses, eventually she was bound to take a wrong turn from Talent Street and wind up in Crazytown. That's the only explanation I can come up with for the murder dolls.
The origin of the murder dolls is shrouded in mystery. My mother claims that they were stitched together with excess yarn and remnant felt. I'm pretty sure that the yarn was shorn from vicious lambs condemned to hell and linked together by needles carved from the bones of mass murderers, genocidal dictators, and Dane Cook fans. I'm convinced that the knitting ritual was something akin to the rape scene in Rosemary's Baby, with the lone exception that Boston Legal was probably on at the time. Either way, these dolls are pure evil. And due to the sad and unfortunate circumstances of my life, I'm sharing a room with them.
Ever wonder what a sock puppet would look like if caught in a house fire? Note the stumps, the lack of facial features, and the jazzy sweater. But she has nothing on ...
Dear Lord, look at this thing. The stringy unkempt hair that you would only find on a psychotic lunatic or maybe a librarian. The black lifeless eyes offset on bone-white yarnskin. The painted blood red lips curled into a twisted smile. The decorated wedding dress that makes her look like she was jilted at the doll altar by Teddy Ruxpin. I half expect to wake up one night and find this thing standing in my doorway, the head of a Cabbage Patch doll in her hand. I'm scared to even go near her. I go to bed at night with a necklace made of wolfsbane and a water gun filled with holy water and maybe some Clorox.
She also has her ears pierced. Shudder.
1 comment:
Funny stuff; I really enjoyed it.
BaHa
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